


films about ghosts

by couldaughter



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Presumed Dead, Reunions, it's complicated - Freeform, well kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 16:23:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20028781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/couldaughter/pseuds/couldaughter
Summary: He took a step back, felt himself hit the doorway and slide down. He put a hand to his chest; he’d worn an old shirt to bed, could feel the soft fabric shift beneath his fingers. His heartbeat thundered against his palm; the sounds of the room blended to a high pitched wail.“Shit,” said Rosa. Her face swam into focus. “Ay, papà, don’t cry. Me and Liz are already dried out.”





	films about ghosts

Arturo woke up to the sound of sobbing in the café. 

He got up slowly, picked up the baseball bat Liz insisted he keep by the door, and listened. He’d never had a thief start crying halfway through a robbery, but it wasn’t completely ridiculous.

Once, when he was young, he’d slipped a packet of gum into his cargo shorts and burst into tears before he even left the Oxxo. Mamá had been too busy laughing to be angry with him.

The weight of the bat made him feel, somehow, even more worried as he moved carefully down the stairs, making sure to skip the third step. It had always made a hell of a noise, more so after Rosa fell down the stairs when she was nine in an attempt to snowboard in a New Mexico summer.

Lower down the stairs he heard quiet whispers beneath the continued sobbing. A whisper he recognised.

“Liz?” 

The whispers stopped. The sobbing got quieter, muffled. Arturo came down the final step and opened the door.

He dropped the bat. The sound echoed in the silence.

“Hi, dad,” said Liz. She’d been crying, he could tell. Her eyes were bloodshot and her voice was hoarse. “Look what I found.”

Someone who could not be his other daughter waved, just once. She looked just how he remembered her.

She’d been so beautiful. He’d forgotten the way she moved in the world, the way she wore everything like armour. How even when she was silent, her eyes would tell a story.

He took a step back, felt himself hit the doorway and slide down. He put a hand to his chest; he’d worn an old shirt to bed, could feel the soft fabric shift beneath his fingers. His heartbeat thundered against his palm; the sounds of the room blended to a high pitched wail.

“Shit,” said Rosa. Her face swam into focus. “Ay, papà, don’t cry. Me and Liz are already dried out.”

“_Mija_,” Arturo gasped. “Mi alma, Rosa.” He was dreaming, he realised. He hadn’t had one so vivid in years. He always woke up before he could hug her the way he wanted to, gather her in his arms, bury his face in her hair. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. All that time --”

“No, papi,” said Rosa. Her arms were crossed tight, shoulders up, the kind of defensive pose Arturo had seen in a thousand arguments that seemed meaningless now. “You’re gonna want the whole story first.”

Arturo took a deep, sobbing breath. His hands were shaking. “It doesn’t matter, I should have listened when you were _alive_ to _tell me_.”

“Well, that’s the good news,” said Rosa. She covered his hands with her own. She was so _warm_. “The bad news is a hell of a lot more complicated.”

The feeling of Rosa’s hands grounded him, somehow, let him look away from her face towards Liz. She was knelt beside him, her eyes so very sad, her hands on her knees.

“Dios mio,” he said, clutching Rosa’s hands tighter. “What happened?”

This was a very strange dream.

Liz bit her lip. “It’s -- well. Rosa is right. It’s very complicated.”

“I’m dreaming,” said Arturo. “I think I have the time.”

“No, papà,” said Liz. She paused, brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. Her hand was shaking, too. “No, you’re not dreaming.”

“Rosa is holding my hands, mija,” he said, very reasonably. “God does not resurrect people, anymore.”

“Definitely not God,” said Rosa, halfway to a laugh and nowhere near amused. “Makes sense if you think you’re dreaming, though. If you knew you were awake you’d be yelling at me, just like old times.”

“_Rosa_,” Liz whispered, harsh and low. “It’s been ten years.”

“Not for me,” she whispered back. Arturo closed his eyes for a moment, basked in the darkness. “Your prom night fucking sucked ass.”

Liz rolled her eyes. 

“Rosa,” said Arturo. He let go of her hands. She looked down at them, as if seeing them for the first time. “Mija, I love you. I know we did not always see eye to eye, but we can work on that… another time. Now, I would like a hug, from my two beautiful daughters.”

_Let the dream end properly_, he thought._ That will make it worth the pain of waking._

It took a moment for Rosa to move forward, a silent look exchanged with Liz before she threw her arms around his shoulders, pressed forward until she was sitting in his lap like she hadn’t since she was twelve years old and some boy dumped her on his father’s orders. She was so alive, he could feel her heart beating through -- what was she _wearing_?

That could wait, of course. Liz wrapped her arms around them both, rested her cheek on the crown of Rosa’s head. Arturo didn’t wake up, and didn’t wake up.

He closed his eyes. When he opened them, he should see the ceiling of his bedroom.

When he opened them, he saw Rosa’s eyes, that same dark brown, no eyeliner for once. 

He wasn’t dreaming. He could feel panic starting to rise, again, darker and headier.

“Surprise,” said Rosa. She spread her hands, let the sleeves of her too-large flannel shirt slip over her knuckles. “Your daughter’s a zombie now.”

Arturo was sure he’d seen Max Evans wear that shirt. 

“Don’t worry, though,” she continued, resting back on her ankles. “I already ate my daily recommended intake of brains.”

Liz put a hand on his arm. “It’s a lot, papà, I know. But -- it really is her. She, uh, she was really dead. And now she’s really not.”

“But _someone _is,” he said, suddenly certain. Her eyes were so dark, shadowed and circled. “What happened, mija?”

Liz shook her head, mouth a thin line. “Not tonight, papà. Tonight is for Rosa. I will answer _anything_, just -- not today. Not yet.” She inhaled, a single shaking breath. Arturo pulled her closer, gathered her into his arms. 

She rested her head on his shoulder. He could feel tears beginning to soak through the fabric.

Rosa stood up. “This is getting pretty dark,” she said, equally shaky. “I’m gonna, uh --” She jabbed a thumb towards the jukebox.

“Quarters are behind the counter,” Liz mumbled, muffled by Arturo’s shirt. “You better pick right for your first night back on Earth.”

Rosa shook her head, and plugged in a number straight away.

“Oh, yeah,” she said, as the first bars rang out. She came to sit by Arturo, leaned back until her head hit the wall.

He looked at her, half her face in shadow. She hadn’t aged a day.

A second chance, then. He would live with that.

**Author's Note:**

> Author does NOT speak Spanish; if you want to correct any fuck ups please feel free, the closest I have is four years of Italian. 
> 
> Look I am just very concerned about Rosa and how the fuck they're gonna handle the whole resurrection thing next season; if they don't read Arturo in I will be VERY sad. He is the best, and I love him, and I'm worried about him now Noah is gone and won't be sponsoring his citizenship application.
> 
> Also yes I am posting fic on two consecutive days; apparently this fandom is just consuming my brain right now.
> 
> The song at the end is Birdhouse In Your Soul by They Might Be Giants; it feels like something Rosa might like, AND it has at least a little bit of thematic resonance. The title is from, of course, Mrs Potter's Lullaby by Counting Crows.
> 
> Find me on twitter AND tumblr (I know, I'm a masochist) @dotsayers, yelling and yelling and yelling.


End file.
